but maybe you're hoping for a fairytale too
by but we lost ourselves
Summary: it's all very tragic, how she ended up an art teacher in the bronx, while he's stuck playing america's favorite pastime in queens. it's an insurmountable distance, really. / the one where he proposes yet again / part four of some sort of love letter to new york.


**here we go, go, go again. thank you so much for your reviews and for sticking with these two, because they're a mess and so am i. review, review, review, pretty please, because they're inspiration and some day i will figure out how to work this pm system and actually get to tell you all how much i love you.**

 **much love, and happy fall. -inez**

She never thought that it would come to this—decorating a classroom in the Bronx, trying to clean decade-old gunk off of pottery wheels and find a smell of Scentsy that didn't clash with the sharp odor of acrylics.

"Where do you want these?" He came through the burnt orange door unannounced and unexpected. Even though most of his person was obscured by cardboard boxes of small canvases and professional-grade oil pastels, his presence made her tingle with warmth.

"Okay, then." He plopped them down on the nearest table, clapped his hands together, and tried to smirk without smiling as she watched him, unaware that she was staring. She hadn't admitted anything yet, but it was there, in her eyes and bit lips and caught breath when he purposefully drifted too close.

She realized then that she hadn't said anything, so she squeaked out a "hi," trying not to stare too noticeably at the bulge of his arms under his flannel, the wave of his hair after his haircut, the crookedness of his smile.

It didn't work. She wasn't inconspicuous at all.

"You okay?" He reached into the top box and pulled out a to-go cup of coffee that smelled vaguely of peppermint.

Peppermint. She would get a peppermint Scentsy.

"Yeah," she grabbed the cup, flinching when their fingers brushed. "Thanks."

"It's looking nice in here."

"The walls are the color of a prison block."

"But no one's going to be looking at that,' he paused with a meaningful look that was vaguely inappropriate for a public school, even after hours. Then he smirked. "Just look at those windows."

She turned, pretending to regard the large industrial windows that took up the majority of the east wall.

"You can hang your stained glass," he said, much closer, his breath on her shoulder.

She stepped away, knowing that if she didn't immediately, she wouldn't at all.

"I thought you had practice today?"

It was said with dread.

He took a deep breath, said a quiet "no, they moved it to Monday," and studied her, trying to see if she was looking for a fight.

He'd gone back to baseball, as he always had—though they'd made him work for it, for sure. He'd more than begged, then sat a half season on a minor bench, just for good measure.

He often wondered if she hated him for that—it was directly against her wishes, and he'd had to move for a bit. They'd fought. He said a lot that he regretted—something like "Christ's sakes, we aren't married. We aren't even dating."

"I don't need this. I just got out of a relationship with a man who didn't respect me. I don't need another."

"This isn't a relationship!"

He'd said it because he hated that it was true.

"And this isn't about respect. You and I both know that."

Eventually, they'd kissed and made up. Well, not kissed. She was still jumpy, and he felt bad.

Her dad died from traumatic brain injury when his hummer ran over an IED in Afghanistan, and he had opportunities for the same fate flying at him in the form of leather-coated balls more often than not.

He decided that he would convince her to love him anyway.

Today, she was glowering and trying to hide it. So he pulled her in and wished for a real kiss, but pressed his lips into her curls, instead.

Sweet Jesus, she smelled good.

"I read that Faulkner you recommended," he murmured, not wanting to let her go, but stepping back nonetheless.

"Oh yeah? How'd you like it?"

"Not at all. Southern Gothicism isn't my cup of sweet tea."

"No?"

"Carson McCullers once left a kitten in a metal mailbox on a freezing day."

" _She_ was a kitten trapped in a mailbox on a freezing day."

"You sound like you speak with empathy, not sympathy," he smirked and grabbed his own coffee, walking over to examine the windows. "But," he glanced over his shoulder, mischievous, "I'm not into threesomes. We may have to rediscuss some things if that's how you like things."

Her jaw dropped. He laughed loudly, the sound ringing off the high ceilings and concrete walls of the room.

"For once, I've shocked her silent."

She threw a paintbrush at him, which bounced off his shoulder.

"Hey! No abuse either!"

He didn't realize what he'd said until a second too late.

"I'm sorry." It was out of his mouth immediately, instinctively, even though she didn't really know how much he knew. They didn't talk about it much.

But for the first time, she didn't flinch. She just smiled with a look he'd never seen before, something sad but shining, because the light from the afternoon sun was shining behind him and lighting him up like an angel, and he was obnoxiously stubborn and cocky, but maybe he _was_ a bit of an angel. He certainly looked like one.

(Not a capital "A," Angel, never. Not the ones in L.A. He hated them with every ounce of his being.)

She shook her head, pulling out more brushes for organization and setting some aside, humming something Ella Fitzgerald that they'd danced to at some point or another, swinging around his dining room table and tripping over chairs along the way.

"That was a good night." He distinctively remembered her falling asleep, sprawled on top of him on the couch, watching _The Italian Job_. Well, she only made it thirty minutes in, but.

"It was alright."

Her eyes twinkled as she turned, and in big, looping letters, scrawled, "Not waving, but drowning" across the chalkboard, almost as an afterthought.

"What's this?"

"A metaphor."

"Yours?"

"Of course not. She had a much harder life than I have."

"Who?"

"Stevie Smith."

"Who?"

She drifted off then, flitting to this place and that, organizing, decorating. He smiled, watching her work, then drifted over toward the chalkboard.

He picked up a piece of chalk and got to work.

"I didn't know you draw," she smirked at his caricature of them holding hands, she in her painting smock, and he in his jersey. He drew a huge heart around them, mischievous, seeking out her blush. It worked.

"That's a lie. I have doodles strewn everywhere in my house. Why do you think I hit on you in the first place?"

"You were hitting on me?" She chuckled. "Never mind that. I didn't know those were yours." She stacked a couple of blocks of clay on top of one another. "I thought your girlfriend just really like making comic strips."

She paused.

"About me."

A snicker again. He paced toward her, a twinkle in his eye.

"You're absurd. The worst. A witch."

"I'm not a witch, I'm your…"

She trailed off. He raised an eyebrow, resting his hands on the shelf behind her.

"You? Not finishing a quote?"

"Well…"

"Go ahead, say it."

"I'm _not_ you're wife."

"Yeah." He cocked his head, studying her. "Why is that? We should get that taken care of."

"Well, you haven't proposed." This was dangerous, she knew. A game that would burn her heart in the end.

"Yes I have. Multiple times, in fact."

Her jaw dropped. "You're ridiculous."

"I proposed the first time we met, actually."

"Oh my god," she grumbled, trying to back up, put some distance between them. It didn't work. He was closing in, and this was different. He was staring at her lips, which he'd previously only glanced at. Her breath caught.

They couldn't. It would change so much—too much.

"Marry me." It burst out of him, husky and desperate. "I've built my entire life around you—us. Marry me."

His eyes, which had drifted closed for a moment, were suddenly bright and green, imploring. Begging.

"Did they drug your coffee?"

No, there was no lightening this mood. Maybe he was serious.

"Babe."

"What'd I tell you about tha—"

His lips were on hers.

Pressing, pulling, searching, soft and firm and sweet like his coffee and too much syrup, just like he liked his pancakes at breakfast.

She tried her hardest not to respond, to push him back. It was an incredible feat when he tasted and smelled so lovely and also she probably loved him.

"Stop being ridiculous," he murmured against her lips, pushing her hair back behind her ear, winding his fingers through the strands, letting his tongue slip out, tempting her to let go, to give in.

Why was she fighting this again? It would be so easy to just—

"Hi! You must be the new teacher. I thought—"

The enthusiastic voice trailed off.

"Oh my. Oh my lands. I'm sorry, I'm just going to…"

She was pushing, and he was jumping back. She was smoothing her hair, and he was trying not to blush. Both were doing a poor job at pretending like the whole thing—their first kiss, one they'd been building up to for how many years now?—had never even happened.

"I am so sorry. He just came to drop some things off,"

She scrambled to get over to the other side of the room and catch the woman, who looked very nice, albeit rather scandalized by the whole torrid affair.

"Are you sure? I can just come back when—"

"No, no! It's lovely to meet you!"

"Is this your husband?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"No."

This was quickly becoming outrageous, he thought.

"I'm her barista, actually," he finally interjected.

A light seemed to come on in the woman's eyes.

"Hey, isn't he that guy that pitches for the Mets?"

"Who?"

"Him."

"Oh, yes, he does something in Queens with a bat and a ball. I don't approve of any of it."

"Oh," the older woman looked him up and down slowly, suggestively, and he shifted his weight, uncomfortable and wondering what in the world had just happened and how he could escape. "Well, I certainly do. What's your name? I feel like we should get to know each other."


End file.
